


Line in the Sand

by TheWalkingGrimes



Series: Tales of District Four [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Discussion of Drug Addiction, Gen, Implied Sex Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Some Ableism, because Capitol people, it happens off-screen and not really discussed but the implications are dark, it starts out cute and then goes downhill, pre-relationship Annie/Finnick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalkingGrimes/pseuds/TheWalkingGrimes
Summary: Before Annie's Victory Tour, Finnick learns more about what lines the Capitol is willing to cross.
Relationships: Annie Cresta & Finnick Odair, Mags & Finnick Odair
Series: Tales of District Four [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018845
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	Line in the Sand

His mouth tastes like char.

Finnick swipes his tongue over the front of his teeth, certain that there has to be some burned bits of cookie stuck in there from Annie’s latest attempt. Baking is technically her ‘talent’... although calling it a talent is perhaps generous.

“It’s even better than your last batch!” Finnick had told her, and Annie actually _swatted_ him with a rag. 

He likes to tease her about it, but really he doesn’t mind being her designated baking assistant/taste tester. It’s nice to see her focused on something so intently instead of just staring off blankly into space - flashes and hints that the sweet yet determined tribute he’d mentored is still in there under all that trauma.

Everyone is so impatient with her, even her family. Finnick knows it comes from a place of concern, of fear that Annie’s lack of noticeable improvement means that she may never return to normal.

 _Normal._ What a stupid word. Annie has been through hell, and she’s reacting about as _normally_ as any decent human being would.

Finnick unlocks the front door to his own home, shucking off his shoes - which always summons the echo of his mother calling out _Finn! No shoes in the house!_ as some strange sensory memory.

The sound echoes throughout the empty house like a gunshot.

When his brother Lotan announced abruptly over dinner a few months before the Games that he was going to move out into a new house all the way across town so he could start a family with his soon-to-be wife, Finnick had been relieved. 

“Give Celia my best,” he’d said, and that had been that. They got married while Finnick was in the Capitol right before the Games started, and by the time Finnick dropped by his house to change out some clothes when he was in town for the Reaping, all of Lotan’s things were gone and his key was sitting on the hall side table. 

_Great,_ Finnick had thought, _finally some time to myself._

Except it turned out that after five years of constantly being around other people, Finnick has no idea how to be alone anymore. Within three days he was hanging around Mags’s house at odd hours, getting underfoot and trying to find random things that needed fixing to give himself an excuse to be there. Then Annie had started seeking out his company, even though Finnick had been trying to give her space, sure that he was probably the _last_ person she wanted to be around, as a constant reminder of her Games. Over the last few months the three of them have settled into somewhat of a routine and they spend most of their days in each other’s company. 

The worst part of the day is always when he has to come back home to this empty house.

Except, Finnick realizes as he steps into his kitchen and freezes on the spot, it’s not empty today.

Because Crassus Underwind is sitting at Finnick’s kitchen table.

There’s a brief, irrational moment where Finnick’s lizard brain - the part of him that never really left his arena - thinks about running. He doesn’t have a weapon on him and Crassus is between him and the drawer with the knives. While it’s possible, probable even, that he could take Crassus in a hand-to-hand melee, there’s also the unfortunate matter of the two Peacekeepers that are standing over Crassus’s shoulders. So fight isn’t an option.

 _Neither is flight,_ Finnick reminds himself, getting a grip and shutting down the lizard brain. He’s not in the arena and this is a different kind of Game. 

“Finnick!” Crassus says. Like they’re friends. “Come, take a seat.” Like it’s his table. Which... it is. It’s certainly not _Finnick’s_ table, just like this house isn’t really his. Nothing actually belongs to him.

Finnick crosses the room and dons a smile like a shield as he sits. “Crassus - to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Well, I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d drop in for a visit.” Crassus tells him. 

“Ah, in the neighborhood you say? Did you have a moment to enjoy the Oysteria on the pier? Oysters are in season right now you know, and there’s really nothing like them fresh.” Slipping into his Capitol persona is proving to be more difficult than it should be. Finnick’s rattled, and he knows that’s probably the point. The only Capitol people who have been in his home are his escort, stylist, and prep team. Who are bearable at best and only annoying at worst. None of them pose a threat to him. 

He’s never put a moment of thought to it before, but there used to be an invisible line in the sand and Crassus sitting in his house has crossed it. 

“We’ll have to try it on our way back to the train station. Now Finnick,” Crassus leans forward, and only now does Finnick notice that he has a cup of coffee sitting near him. Sure enough, there’s a freshly brewed pot sitting on the stove. The prickling feeling underneath his skin increases tenfold. “I wanted to go over some housekeeping business before the Tour.”

Coming out of his mouth like that, it almost sounds typical. As if it’s perfectly ordinary for the Head Gamemaker to just ‘drop in’ a month before a Victory Tour instead of some harried secretary sending out a printed schedule on President Snow’s stationary.

“Housekeeping business?”

“Yes… you see, it’s reached our ears that dear Miss Cresta may be facing difficulties on her upcoming Tour. That’s of major concern to us.”

There’s no need to ask who he means by _us._ Crassus loves doing that, speaking about himself and Snow as if they’re a singular entity. The _royal ‘we’_ , as it were. For a moment, Finnick nearly pities him and his fool’s paradise. Snow doesn’t have partners, friends, or even allies really. He only has pawns.

And enemies.

But there’s no time to dwell on Crassus’ delusions. Because he’s talking about Annie like she’s an inconvenience and that is a major concern to _Finnick._

“It’s a slow process, but it _is_ proceeding.” Finnick says carefully. “Annie’s not the first victor to come out of the arena with some mental backlash. We’re all working to make sure she’ll be ready for her Tour.”

“And I’m sure you’re all doing everything that you could possibly be capable of.” Crassus replies, his voice sickly sympathetic and patronizing. “But some things are probably beyond even the _capable_ victors of Four.”

“What is your suggestion then?” As much as Finnick is dreading whatever Crassus has come here to dump on him, he wishes the Gamemaker would get to the point. 

Finnick _hates_ when they draw it out.

“I’m so glad you inquired. See, while the people of your district might be more suited toward swimming and tossing around oversized forks, in the Capitol we have professionals who are specifically trained and suited for dealing with people with mental incapacities such as Miss Cresta’s. As a victor, Miss Cresta was fortunate enough to gain privileged attention from said medical professionals. Which is why I am _puzzled,_ Finnick, as to why Miss Cresta has been allowed to ignore the instructions of those aforementioned medical professionals.”

Strangely, out of all that, the thing that makes Finnick’s hackles rise the most is the phrase _has been allowed._ As if Annie is a child who needs other people to make decisions for her. As if she’s utterly mentally incompetent. 

And it strikes him too that they’re having this conversation with _him_ instead of with her - although Finnick’s not going to argue that point because like hell he’s letting Crassus anywhere near Annie. He knows that the decision to not talk to her wasn’t done out of kindness or a sensitivity to how seeing a Gamemaker right now might set Annie back in her progress - it’s because they don’t want to deal directly with her.

“If this is about the morphling that was prescribed to her, it was decided that the dosage was too much.” Finnick says carefully, resisting the urge to spit out: _By Annie. It was decided by Annie because she can make her own decisions, you absolute fuck._ “Morphling is highly addictive, and if she’d continued taking any more she likely wouldn’t have been able to get off it. Besides, it wasn’t helping her mental state so much as just leaving her completely numb and out of it.”

Crassus smirks. _“Well._ I wasn’t aware that you were so knowledgeable that you’ve surpassed the wisdom of our Capitol medical specialists.” He reaches forward and pats Finnick on the arm. “You really are a man of infinite talents, Finnick.”

“Not at all, I only have the advantage of being a present witness to Annie’s recovery.” Crassus’s hand is still on his arm and suddenly Finnick is fifteen again, confused but too trusting as he lets the Gamemaker lead him off to a secluded room. Not that there’d been any choice - he’d been a victor long enough to know that when President Snow personally pulls you aside and introduces you to someone, then it’s your job to make sure that person feels properly appreciated. 

He just hadn’t been a victor long enough to know what _appreciated_ could mean.

Finnick resists the urge to pull his arm away. Or break Crassus’s fingers. His Capitol mask really isn’t designed to hold up under this roof, at this table where he used to sit with his mother and brother, cracking jokes and rejoicing in their full stomachs. That first year after his victory almost feel like a strange dream sometimes. Too good to be true, as if he should’ve known they would end with his mother lying breathless on a metal table and his brother no longer able to look him in the eye.

He takes a deep breath and centers himself. This is about Annie, not him. “To be honest, I’m surprised that the Capitol is still pursuing long-term morphling treatments for victors. Considering the incident seven years ago with Justin Lutz.”

The morphling-addicted mentor from Six’s tribute had made it to the final eight, which was when they not only dragged family and friends out for interviews, but also their mentors. 

And Justin had looked out at the sparkling lights of the stage and thrown up all over Caesar’s jacket. Right on television. 

Now Crassus’s smirk is strained. He still doesn’t retract his hand. “It might surprise you to learn that we would prefer a repeat of that incident as opposed to other types of expulsions that might spew forth from Miss Cresta’s mouth. I’m sure you recall there were a few uncomfortable moments during her Post-Games interview.”

Finnick does. He’s not sure if Annie does. She’d still been pretty out of it when they dragged her out, still in shock and not really in control of the things she was saying. And it wasn’t really anything _too_ terrible or even remotely treasonous, but still… ‘uncomfortable’ was definitely the right word. 

“Of course, but she was in a much worse state at that point. _And_ still on the morphling, so I don’t think-”

“Finnick, I’m going to be blunt with you.” Crassus interrupts, with a squeeze to Finnick’s forearm that feels about as threatening as it’s meant to. “You probably aren’t aware of this as you haven’t been back to the Capitol since the Games, but there are some nasty rumors flying around about how Miss Cresta’s victory wasn’t properly _earned._ Some of these rumors are simply embarrassing for the Gamemakers - that the earthquake was a mistake, some actual natural disaster or a mis-push of a button. It’s the more harmful rumors that concern us, however.”

He should probably say something in return, but he can’t. Crassus has to know that Snow already spoke to Finnick about this - ‘spoke’ of course being a very polite word for sending Peacekeepers to collect him immediately after the Games and giving Finnick such a terrifying verbal lashing that he’d been pretty much convinced he was going to come home to Lotan’s head waiting for him on the coffee table. 

All things considered, up until this point Finnick had thought he’d been let off pretty lightly. He should’ve known that it was too good to be true.

“We think it would be best for everyone involved if Miss Cresta’s Victory Tour were as forgettable as possible.” Crassus continues on. “No outbursts, no slips of the tongue, nothing to fuel any of these nasty rumors. If all goes well, in three months time no one will be speaking of Annie Cresta ever again.”

That’s at least something they can agree on. But Finnick isn’t about to let them drug Annie to get through it, be it morphling or that even worse ‘personality modifier’ they were trying to inject her with when she was first pulled out of the Arena and he’d managed to sneak into the hospital to talk to her doctor while she was sedated. 

“I’ll make sure that she’s prepared.” Finnick insists, even though he has no way of doing so. Annie’s slowly starting to become aware of her triggers - they’ve been making lists of everything that causes her to either slip away from reality or burst into hysterics. Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure they’ll encounter every single one of those triggers on the tour. 

If he thought it would be possible he would suggest that they cancel it - but he knows better. That’s the last thing Crassus, and more importantly _Snow,_ wants. A cancelled Victory Tour would certainly be more sensational gossip than anything Annie might do or say. “And we’ll discuss the medication again. I really do think that we will see better results without it though,” he adds, because he knows that Annie’s not going to want to take it and he will fight tooth and nail to protect her decision.

Crassus’s grip loosens slightly and he absently strokes a thumb against the underside of Finnick’s forearm, along the veins leading to his wrist. “I’m sure you will come to the right decision. Remember, there is quite a bit more at stake here than Miss Cresta’s wellbeing. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

Images flash like fireworks behind Finnick’s eyes. Standing rooted to the spot of a strange bedroom, watching the holo-television as footage of his mother in her interview during his Games played, Lotan beaming and proud, his best friend from Training, even the little neighbor girl who he used to sneak spare mussels that he’d sneak off the trawler when no one was looking.

_Accidents do happen, you know._

“Of course not.”

“Well, do be sure Miss Cresta is educated in that regard.” Crassus pats his hand and finally, _finally_ pulls away. “Now, I do have a tight schedule so I’ll need to head off shortly but would you mind giving me a tour first? I’ve never been inside a victor’s home before, it’s a fascinating insight.”

The color should not drain from Finnick’s face, because he’s been expecting this ever since he saw Crassus sitting at his kitchen table. He knows why Snow sent Crassus instead of a more convenient, less high-profile messenger, and hadn’t dared allow himself the hope that it was just for the sake of a mind-fuck.

It shouldn’t, but it does, and his voice is uneven when he replies, “Of course, what would you like to see?”

“I think the bedroom would be an excellent place to start.”

* * *

Mags doesn’t question him when Finnick shows up at her house with a bag of clothes and another one of toiletries.

“It’s just for a little bit,” he insists, because he refuses to be chased out of his own house. Not permanently at least, and it’s all stupid anyway since none of it was ever really his anyway, and he doesn’t own anything, and he’s always known that, so really this shouldn’t be any different and -

“Oh, _mijo.”_ Mags cups his face and brushes away a tear. “You can always stay here. You’re safe here.”

Finnick doesn’t have the energy to argue with her and tell her that nowhere is safe. There is no safe place for him, for any of them.

But Mags’s arms feel about as close to _safe_ as he’ll ever get.

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so I do have plans and stories for things other than Finnick's trauma, but these are the ones that popped into my head first because I'm in an angsty mood right now. I promise fluff (and at the very least _other_ types of trauma) are to come.
> 
> I half-wrote this because I was thinking about how unrealistic it is in some fics that Snow is always super-involved with all the victors and micromanaging them personally, when it seems more likely that he'd outsource that to other people unless it's something extremely significant (which makes him coming to visit Katniss in Catching Fire such a huge deal).


End file.
